


Fear, Frustration and Fascination: How Draco Malfoy Came to Fear Toasters and Love Hermione Granger.

by Kataclysmic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Humor, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29273091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kataclysmic/pseuds/Kataclysmic
Summary: Perhaps this was when it started – our story.  When Draco looked at my wand like a little boy in front of a Pick n’ Mix; his look was so hungry, and for a split-second I felt hotly uncomfortable and then I was doomed.“Hey, where’s your wand?” I wondered aloud suddenly, as if why he was trying to jam his hands in the microwave wasn’t odd enough.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 5
Kudos: 65





	Fear, Frustration and Fascination: How Draco Malfoy Came to Fear Toasters and Love Hermione Granger.

I suppose I should start at the beginning, as that is where one usually begins – only, it’s rather hard to decide on _our_ beginning. Was it that rainy Sunday afternoon when he knocked on my front door, or was it earlier when he discovered, on the Astronomy Tower, that he wasn’t a killer? Further back, when we started school and we sat on opposite sides of prejudice? It probably boils down to oaths and bigotry generations back, but that doesn’t have _too_ much influence on that particular Sunday afternoon in February, or what came for us afterwards. 

I was doing the crossword in the Sunday Prophet; I was pencilling in ‘ignoramus’ in four across when there was a sharp, reluctant tap on my front door. Not expecting anyone in particular on that rainy Sunday afternoon, I hurried across the flat and unlocked the door to find an irate looking Draco Malfoy standing there. 

“Wha– Malfoy? Oh. Huh?” I babbled, confused as I took in his soaked appearance despite the umbrella in his hand. Not to mention it was Draco Malfoy. Standing on my front doorstep. Draco Malfoy. _Malfoy_. 

Draco thrust the umbrella at me and drops of rain fell onto my bare feet. 

“What?” 

His lips tightened in obvious frustration and Draco just shook the umbrella at me. Even without the wet hair and soggy robes his appearance was confusing and unexpected. At that point, I hadn’t seen him in years – the last I had heard he had avoided Azkaban after the war with an extended parole period and a severe fine. His involvement was negligible.

“I can’t operate the umbrella,” Draco said. His mouth was set in a very tight, angry line and there was a deep frown line between his pale eyebrows. 

I couldn’t help but continue to stare. 

“It’s fucking pissing it down, Granger. May I come in?” 

Of course, it was raining and no matter who he was it would have been impolite to conduct the conversation on the doorstep; backing away from the door I waved Malfoy through the hallway and into the kitchen. There was no one’s appearance that would have surprised me any more than his – I didn’t think we had _ever_ exchanged a civil word, and yet there he was, wiping his feet on the bristly mat Molly Weasley had bought when I moved in. 

“The kitchen is the first on the left,” I said before darting into my bedroom to send a note to Harry about the arrival of my unexpected guest. _Constant vigilance_ never quite wore off, even after all the years of safety and domesticity. 

Before I entered the kitchen a moment later, I heard a bang and an “ow” and another bang. When I slipped through the door I found Draco hunched over her microwave with his hands wedged inside, biting his lip as he tried to shut the door with his elbow. The door wouldn’t shut around his wrists. 

“Your microshake doesn’t work, Granger,” he said, snarling at my newest kitchen appliance. I had little use for it but my parents had insisted. “It won’t,” he growled, hitting the door with his elbow again, “fucking,” bash, “ow– close!” 

Of all the stupid things I had come across since finding out I was a witch thirteen years ago, Draco Malfoy trying to microwave his own hands must have ranked among the highest. 

“What are you doing?!” The urban legend about the kitten in the microwave raced through my mind. 

“Trying to warm up.” The door was elbowed closed again, and I noticed his wrists were furiously red from his insistence that the microwave door should shut around his hands. “It’s freezing outside.” 

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, Malfoy,” I cried. Without thinking, I crossed the kitchen and reached up to wrench him away and it was only when my hands closed around a fistful of soaking wet fabric that I realised exactly how cold and wet he was. 

I grabbed my wand from my jeans pocket and muttered the air-drying charm. A warm gust of air jetted from my wand and blustered around Draco, momentarily flushing his pale cheeks and rousing the tangles of blond hair into fluffy blond curls. 

Perhaps this was when it started – our story. When Draco looked at my wand like a little boy in front of a Pick n’ Mix; his look was so hungry, and for a split-second I felt hotly uncomfortable and then I was doomed. 

“Hey, where’s your wand?” I wondered aloud suddenly, as if why he was trying to jam his hands in the microwave wasn’t odd enough. 

Draco sighed dramatically and flounced to a chair in front of my small kitchen dining table. The flare of attraction I had momentarily felt was doused when I realised he was behaving like a rather pathetic Victorian damsel; it is a trait that is a result of him being horribly spoiled when he was a child, and is a mannerism that still makes me laugh more than pity him. 

“My wand,” he announced, and propped his chin on his hands, “has been confiscated.” 

“Why?” 

With my back turned to Draco, I flicked on the kettle and went about reaching for the teabags and milk and sugar, finding it far easier to busy myself in making tea than eye contact. 

Draco went quiet. 

After the war, after all was said and done, I had hoped that our generation would be past all the old prejudices, but if Draco was going around doing things that could get his wand confiscated, then– 

“I smacked Dean Thomas in the nose for being a tosser, and it was misconstrued as being blood prejudiced.” 

Spinning round in shock, I almost spilt the sugar. “You smacked Dean?!” 

“He was being a twat!” Draco countered. “He was being a drunken, oafish prick and I did something that was interpreted as “an unwarranted act of aggression based on unlawful prejudices.” 

The line sounded familiar to me, and no wonder – I had helped write it. Admittedly, I had not intended it to result in Draco whinging in my kitchen about his lack of wand, but I supposed it had a certain amount of irony. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding, but by his own admission, he _had_ hit Dean and it would do him good to learn how the other half lived. 

“Well perhaps in the future you’ll keep your fists to yourself,” I said, placing a teacup down on the table in front of him. A plate of biscuits followed, and then a cup of tea for myself. Within seconds, Draco’s hand darted across the table to the biscuits, followed by his sleeve falling into the tea. More tea sloshed onto the saucer and his sleeve as he drew his arm back, swearing miserably. 

Draco drew his sleeve up to eye level and miserably watched the tea-sodden fabric drip onto the table. 

“Oh for goodness sake, Malfoy, it’s not forever…” 

“Might as well be,” he replied grumpily. He was staring at his stained cuff mournfully. “I won’t last six months without magic, Granger, I barely survived a week. I don’t know how Muggles cope.” 

“Aren’t you supposed to have a sponsor throughout this?” 

“That’s the worst part of it! He’s this batty old squib who doesn’t know his toaster from his toilet, and _that_ did not end well, let me tell you!” 

I could not help a scoff of laughter at this thought, nor did I even attempt to hide it. 

“It’s not bloody funny, Granger,” Draco complained. 

Tilting my head slightly, I gave him a pointed look. “It sort of is.” 

Draco glared at me and dropped two spoonfuls of sugar into what was left of his tea, clearly annoyed that the sugar was not spooning itself. “Imagine if you’d had Longbottom teaching you your first ever Transfiguration lessons instead of McGonagall.” 

As much as I loved my friend, I balked at this idea and actually found myself soften at Draco’s plight. Somewhere along the line, and Merlin knew where, Draco must have learned to read my face because otherwise I am sure, even to this day, that he never would have dared ask, “So, Granger, I was hoping _you’d_ help me. Best of both worlds and all that. What do you think?” 

I helped Neville look for his frog on the first train to Hogwarts. I helped Ron and Harry with their Transfiguration homework for six years. I ate awful, _awful_ cakes because I didn’t want to hurt the feelings of a half-giant. I campaigned for proper rights for house-elves. I went on a date with Seamus Finnegan six months ago because I felt too awkward to say no. And now I was going to teach an elitist pureblood snob how to live as a Muggle because he was too pathetic to survive on his own. Of course I was. 

I pushed my cup of tea out of the way and dropped my forehead down on the kitchen table, banging it down a second time for good measure. 

“Okay, Malfoy. I’ll help you.” 

\-- 

Harry arrived later that evening to check I was okay. Ron had tagged along when he heard the news and wanted to see Draco’s plight for himself. 

“Have you gone mad, Hermione?” Harry asked, almost straight away. 

“Shh,” I hissed. “He’s had his wand confiscated, he’s not deaf!” 

Harry, Ron and I were huddled in my living room. I had left the kitchen door open to make sure Draco didn’t hurt himself or any more kitchen appliances. All I could actually see at that point was Draco’s legs, peaking out from underneath my sink where he was inspecting my u-bend, apparently quite fascinated. The taps were being turned on and off periodically, followed by bangs against the pipework. 

“If his wand has been confiscated, why is he _here_?” 

“His sponsor… didn’t work out,” I said, deciding not to mention the toaster incident. Ron was finding it funny enough as it was. 

“That doesn’t mean he’s your responsibility, ‘Mione,” Ron said, glaring at the legs beneath my sink. 

The truth was, I explained, I felt bad for him. He was pathetic and miserable and call me St. Jude, I wanted to help him. The fact his head was buried under my sink gave me faith that he wasn’t an entirely lost cause. 

I neglected to tell my friends about the hot, swooping sensation in my chest that occurred when Draco first looked at me in my kitchen. 

When they left, I joined Draco at the kitchen table. 

“Weasley isn’t staying? Thank Merlin. Honestly, Granger, this situation is bad enough without me having to listen to Weasley banging you against the wall in the next room!” 

“Malfoy!” I cried in shock. 

“Oh come on, Granger, I know you're prissy but you don’t just do it in missionary, do you?” 

I _didn’t_ , but I didn’t particularly want to share my sexual preferences with him at that point. Nor did I want to confess that Ron and I weren’t “banging” at all. Between the war and our friendship, our relationship took too long to get started and it fizzled out before it even began. 

“Ron and I are just friends,” I eventually confessed. 

“So you _do_ like doing it against the wall?” 

I remained silent. 

“Hey, if you need some inspiration, Jebadiah showed me some excellent channels on the television. It’s much better than Playwizard – did you know you can actually _watch_ \--” 

“Enough!” I shrieked. I could only imagine the channels he had been shown on the television and I rather hoped he didn’t intend to watch them at my flat. I told myself furiously that I absolutely did _not_ want Draco Malfoy aroused in my living room. 

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed, Granger,” Draco told me sagely. He had this peculiar glint in his eye that I hadn’t seen before – it wasn’t cruel but it certainly wasn’t kind. I would later learn that this look was an easy giveaway if he was teasing me. “I understand Muggles are much more open about sex. Have you heard of something called dogging?” 

“Ugh!” I shuddered, and stood up. “The spare room is already made up. I’m sure you can figure out how to put yourself to bed without my help.” 

“I dunno, Granger, if you’re not doing Weasley perhaps you would like to help put me to bed?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I told him sharply, and marched to the safety of my bedroom. 

The trouble was, it started on day one; the funny little flare in my stomach when he smiled at me, the way it flickered lower when he made those sorts of remarks. Our whole relationship was sort of inevitable, I later concluded, the moment I agreed to sponsor him throughout his magical banishment. He was a flirt and I was thirty-one, inexplicably attracted to a pathetic excuse for a wizard who had bullied me as a child. 

\-- 

“Granger!” 

“What is it now, Malfoy?” 

Releasing a deep sigh, I made my way towards the lounge. It had been an exhausting week; once Draco had finished sulking and finished teasing me about my sex life, his curiosity had emerged and the questions were almost constant – as was his ability to twist, bang and scrape himself. I soon learnt it was an absolute miracle Draco had survived a week with Jebadiah Hassleton; trying to shut his hands in the microwave was just the tip of the iceberg. At school, I had always vaguely perceived him as an elegant and graceful person despite his character, but now I was beginning to believe he had been employing a very useful charm in disguising a tendency to trip over thin air. 

Unfortunately, this tendency to cut and bruise himself meant I ended up very close to him on several occasions in that first week. 

“I don’t know why you don’t just use a healing charm,” he grumbled as I swabbed his forehead with TCP. He wriggled uncomfortably under the pressure I was applying and ended up sidling closer to where I was perched on the sofa. “It’s not _your_ wand that was confiscated.” 

I suppressed the urge to take a deep, shuddery breath at his nearness. It was all very well to tell myself I wasn’t attracted to the objectionable, pathetic, banished man who had invaded my home, but I couldn’t stop the physical reaction I felt when he looked at me just so or our hands would brush. I _tingled_ , my heart did a funny thing in my chest and I felt vaguely sick all at once; it was ridiculous. The way my heart still swoops down to my stomach when he touches me after several years would be laughable if it didn’t make me _giddy_. 

“The point of not having your wand is so you can experience living like a Muggle, not so that you boss someone around to do spells for you,” I replied, and swabbed the cut on his forehead again for good measure. 

“I rather like ordering you around though, Granger,” he said, looking at me very deliberately. He licked his lips very slowly, and the feeling in my chest swooped lower. _Much_ lower. 

“You’re a pig,” I retorted, and I managed to muster more conviction than I felt. 

“Kiss it better for me?” Draco said. 

I hadn’t known whether to hit him or snog him! 

“Granger!” Draco continued to beckon me, days later, and I hastened into the lounge.

“Granger,” Draco announced solemnly when I entered the room. “I would like to buy a Landrover. Will a supermarket have one?” 

“Malfoy, you can’t buy _everything_ you see on the TV; the adverts aren’t aimed at you personally.” 

Draco looked at me suspiciously. He was obviously torn between believing me, who he had for a long time understood to have working knowledge of almost anything, and the television, something he was quickly beginning to see as the bastion of all knowledge; the idiot box it was not. 

“But the man said I could go anywhere!” he whined. 

“You can’t even drive!” I replied, my frustration mounting. We had been stuck in the flat together for seven days and my patience was wavering. Between the frustration of not knowing whether to slap him or kiss him and having to fret that he would accidentally electrocute himself or slip in the shower, I was becoming quite fraught. 

“Cock off, Granger. Just because you can’t ride a broom doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be able to drive.” 

I resisted the urge to retort that I could fly, because I could – perfectly well, but that simply wasn’t the issue at hand. “You crashed the hoover into the sofa and the television and the wall _and_ Crookshanks! You must be mad if you think I would let you sit behind the wheel of a car.” 

“Watch it, your temper is making your hair start to frizz,” Draco said, with a touch of the smirk I remembered from school. I didn’t remember the way it made my insides flip – that was new. Then he added proudly, “You should get some GHDs.” 

And I was proud too. Proud that he had picked up what GHDs were, applied their use in the right context _and_ got the name correct. Once I had shown him how to correctly use the microwave he hadn’t tried to shut his hands in it again, and he had gotten very good at using the television under Jebadiah’s brief tutelage. Despite our history, I felt bad that I was getting annoyed with him because he had made such an effort to learn how everything worked and that was impressive in spite of our history. 

“If I’m not allowed a Landrover, how do you propose I get around?” 

I paused; I hadn’t really thought of that. I didn’t drive because, despite some of my Muggle traditions, I still Apparated everywhere, but then lots of Muggles didn’t drive and they managed perfectly well. “You can use the Tube.” 

“What’s a Tube?” he asked immediately. 

“It’s like a train but underground and--” 

Malfoy look startled. “How does it know where it’s going?!” 

I loved questions and I loved answers, but there were so many questions which invariably led to yet more questions and answers that he turned into innuendo. The television, and all the bloody adverts, provided more questions than answers and he tended to find Coronation Street far more interesting than any documentaries that may have actually been useful to him. “They have maps and tracks and computers… computers-- Gosh, Malfoy! That’s it!” 

\-- 

“Granger, this is ridiculous,” Malfoy said to me a quiet, slightly desperate voice. “There are no seats. The lights keep flickering. This can’t possibly be safe. What is that Merlin-awful smell?” 

“It’s the Underground, Malfoy. This is just the way it is,” I replied, and I tried not to wince at how ridiculously terrified he looked. His ordinarily pale face was ghost-white, and his eyes were wide and darting around furiously. 

The carriage was very busy, tightly packed with people filling up all the seats and most, like us, having to stand. One of Malfoy’s hands was wrapped tightly around my bicep, while his other hand clutched a rail; his grip tightened every time the carriage took a sharp turn and his stance faltered. He still denies it, but at one point he actually yelped. 

“This is not like a train; this is like a particularly awful prison. They should have away with Azkaban and put all the Death Eaters in one of these carriages, circling endless beneath London,” Malfoy muttered, and I could feel his mouth move against my hair. Normally I would have felt uncomfortable standing so close to him, but the tightness of the carriage necessitated it, and I think that even had the carriage not been so busy, I would have allowed him to cling on. Partly it was out of sympathy; I remembered my first daunting trip to London and how I had clung to my mother. Another part, a part of me that I merrily refused to indulge in for some time because it was _Draco Malfoy_ , enjoyed the feel of his body against me as he leaned into me in the confined carriage. 

“I can’t believe these people _choose_ this mode of transportation,” he hissed. His breath tickled my ear. “Why don’t they get Landrovers? They can go _anywhere_.” 

Before I could reply, the train jerked to a halt. 

“This is Oxford Circus. Please mind the gap.” 

\-- 

The busy streets were tolerable to Draco because people were people even if they were Muggle people. None of the window displays in the shops caught his eye like I thought they might, but none came close to some of the displays I’d witnessed over the years in Diagon Alley, so I supposed shopping wasn’t necessarily the overwhelming experience I thought it may have been for him. 

Well, normal shops that is. Not electrical shops. As soon as we reached our destination, Draco’s eyes lit up. 

“Granger, look at the size of that television!” he said in wonder, walking up to the display of televisions and coming to a halt in front of the largest. “Just think how big the people on it would be.” 

I knew which people he meant; he was talking about those channels that Jebadiah showed him. 

“I’ve got a television, thank you. That’s not what we’re here to look at,” I replied, and tugged him further into the shop. 

I marched him past the white goods section, which Draco looked rather suspiciously at. He later confided he had thought the American-style fridges were Vanishing Cabinets. 

Past the dishwashers (“I suppose I can see why you’d be advocating rights for house-elves if you had machines that did half of their jobs,” he told me grudgingly), past the microwaves and coffee machines and kettles and finally at the computer section. 

“These are computers, Draco,” I said, not quite knowing how to begin. “They’re like books, in a way, you can read and store and write information on them, but they’re electronic – like a television. And you can connect them to other computers all over the world and read and share information and videos and photos. 

“I thought you might like one so you can look up any questions you have. They can be very comprehensive if you don’t have the right book to hand.” 

I didn’t tell him about the endless shopping you could do online, nor the questionable websites that both he and Jebadiah would no doubt enjoy. He went on to discover both of these online pastimes nonetheless. 

“Fascinating,” he murmured, and stepped cautiously towards the display. A row of laptops whirred quietly in expectation as he approached. 

\-- 

I thought I would just be teaching him the basics of Muggle culture, enough to get by on for six months; I certainly hadn’t anticipated him becoming my flatmate for his time without magic, nor him being so _interested_ in life without it. His thirst for knowledge rivalled my own when I had first laid my eyes on _Hogwarts: A History_ , and I found his fervour strangely endearing. 

Three weeks into his stay with me and his questions still continued. His interest wasn’t like Arthur Weasley’s, and it wasn’t how I might have imagined his regard of Muggle life when we were back at Hogwarts. He quickly accepted that for every spell, charm and potion he had grown up with, there was a Muggle equivalent way of getting something done. I think it shocked him that in some cases the Muggle way was actually better. 

Draco had three ways of dealing with the Muggle Unknown. 

One: Fascination. He asked endless questions about the television, and later, the computer, the kitchen sink, my hair dryer, and condoms. Some things were ingenious or peculiar or charming and he became simply obsessed. 

Two: Frustration. Jebadiah hadn’t explained the workings of the microwave properly to him, or the toaster apparently. Draco had always been rather cruel to the washing machine and I have to wonder now if this is associated with an incident with Jebadiah as well. If Draco didn’t properly grasp the workings of something, he became frustrated. There were many broken Muggle items in our history, wires spilled out of accidental holes in electrical items, and strange whirry noises that has resulted in them being thrown against walls in frustration, especially in the early years. 

Three: Fear. It was not an abject fear or terror, but he felt uncomfortable; some Muggle concepts seemed so foreign and unfamiliar to him that he struggled to grasp them. He never took to public transport, particularly the Underground.

How he took to any one new Muggle thing I showed him was anybody’s guess. Science-Fiction films were absolutely incredible, James Bond was the greatest Muggle that ever lived (Draco didn’t believe he was fictional), while Toasted Sandwich Makers were akin to the Cruciatus (this may have been to do with the Toaster Problem – I do not know). He didn’t like waiting for traffic lights, but swiping his Oyster Card was great fun. 

And the internet. Draco loved the internet. Draco couldn’t believe it was a Muggle invention because it was just _too_ wonderful. 

“Hey, Granger,” Draco called, looking up from the screen. He’d been on the machine for _hours_ on that particular afternoon. I was impressed he’d picked up the use of it so quickly, and I had forgotten that while he’d been a bully at school, he’d never been stupid. He had been reading and researching quite quietly all afternoon, only speaking up with the occasional, “Hey, Granger, did you know that a toaster uses almost half as much energy as a full-sized oven?” or “Granger, were you aware that cigarette lighters were invented before matches?” 

While my general knowledge has always been good, it expanded considerably during Draco’s first months armed with the computer and Google. 

I had expected more of the same when he called my name. I certainly didn’t expect, “Hey, Granger, what’s a condom?” 

There was no mischievous twinkle in his eye, he was genuinely curious and while I loathed to think what he had been looking at that would have brought up the question, I daren’t instruct him to look it up himself in case of what else he might find online. 

I couldn’t gloss over the question. Draco was going to be without his wand for another five months. What if he met some nice Muggle girl and– The idea made me feel vaguely nauseous, though not so much as the idea of having to deal with Malfoy suffering from genital warts or having to show him how to change the nappies on lots of tiny blond babies. 

“Condoms are a Muggle form of contraception. They’re also used to prevent the spread of STDs.” 

“I see,” Draco replied, and I think the answer was more or less what he was expecting. He closed the laptop lid then and settled it down on the floor. “And how do they work?” 

It was a reasonable question, I told myself. I just didn’t quite know how to explain. 

When I was in my teens, my next door neighbour had gone to the local secondary school. While I was in Potions, learning about the medicinal properties of an eye on the Blast-Ended Skrewt, she had watched alongside embarrassed classmates as a condom was unrolled over a banana. Two years later I had a similarly uncomfortable lecture from my mother. 

Now I was about to give it Draco. I gulped. And then I fled. 

My respite was only momentary as I dashed to my bedroom to collect a condom from my bedside table, and a banana from the fruit basket, and then returned to the living room. 

Sex education was the furthest thing from my mind when I agreed to help Draco through his wand confiscation. I wished I could remember how it had all lead to that point, but my mind was blank beyond being painfully aware that I was sitting next to Draco Malfoy with a condom and a banana in my lap. 

“Uh, condoms are used to create a protective barrier when having sex to stop conception or STDs,” I told him, in what I hoped was a matter of fact voice. 

“What’s the banana got to do with it?” Draco asked, leaning closer and peering at the items in my lap. 

“I was going to show you how it works in case the, er, need arises.” 

He leaned even closer, if that was indeed possible. Of course it was entirely possible that my brain was shutting down from lack of oxygen and my world view was just narrowing as my breathing was considerably inhibited by his proximity. His nearness was overpowering. I felt my cheeks flush. 

“With a banana?” 

I swallowed, my mouth dry. 

“Granger?” 

“Oh hmm, yes.” I tore the foil open. Then explained, “You pinch the tip to make sure no air gets stuck, and then simply unroll it… downwards…” 

My hand was halfway down the banana, the condom beneath my circled fingers, when Draco’s hand wrapped around mine, sliding down the remaining length of the banana. 

“Can the, er, banana feel our hands?” 

“Um,” I responded, the banana was the furthest thing from my mind. His hand was warm and firm around mine, and he was sitting so close that he was pressed right against the length of my side. “As far as I’m aware, not that I know from experience, obviously, um, it doesn’t detract from the sensation too much. It’s quite thin.” 

“Lucky banana,” he said, and laughed slightly. 

I turned to look at him and he jumped up abruptly. “Thanks for the info, Granger,” he said, and then headed into the kitchen. 

I was left on the sofa, staring at my sheathed banana, strangely flustered. 

\-- 

Three more weeks passed without incident. Though I had found myself flustered after The Banana Incident, as I dubbed it when confessing to Ginny, Draco and I never discussed it again. Draco was almost a third of the way through his wandless term, and coping considerably well for someone who had relied on magic for twenty-four years. The television and computer were quickly mastered, but entertainment things quickly are. The proficient ease he took to use a digital camera impressed me. Somehow he never mastered using an iron. 

I returned from work one evening to find Draco in the kitchen, staring excitedly at the cordless phone. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed four bananas had turned black in the fruit bowl. 

“Potter just telephoned me,” he told me. 

“You can say ‘phoned’ or ‘called’ if you like,” I informed him absently. By this point, correcting his Muggle terminology was a reflex action. Had I not, his speech would have been very formal and quite peculiar, indeed! 

He was smiling broadly, and I was trying to fathom exactly what talking to Harry would have made Draco so immensely pleased. Then I realised, it wasn’t talking to _Harry_ on the phone that had excited him, it was talking to Harry on the _phone_. No one had called Draco before, no one had reason to. 

“Oh, your first phone call,” I mused, and set about removing my outer robes and flicking on the kettle. “What did you think?” 

Draco reached for the milk out of the fridge and handed it to me as I dropped teabags and sugar into two mugs. 

“It was strange not to see the face of the person you’re talking to, though it was rather nice not having to actually _look_ at Potter,” Draco replied and chuckled. 

“What was he after?” 

Harry and I used a strange combination of both Muggle and magical means to communicate – we were the only people I knew who would use letters, owls, telephones, emails, and the Floo to talk. 

“He invited me to join him and Seamus at a football match tomorrow. Apparently it’s not as good as Quidditch, but I’ve seen it on the telly and it looks interesting.” 

“Ohh, that’s nice,” I replied. While I thought it was particularly nice of Harry to make this effort with Draco, I couldn’t help but be a little bit jealous. Football on a Saturday was clearly a boys’ activity – and I didn’t expect an invitation had been tacked onto the end of the phone call for me. 

\-- 

The following day Harry took the Floo into my living room and greeted me warmly. I thanked him quietly as I hugged him. 

Even though the two of them had arranged their afternoon together with no encouragement from me, they were strangely quiet and reluctant around one another, and the idea that they might actually leave the flat and head to the Tube station without me to act as a buffer in their conversation seemed impossible after the first five minutes. It was then, while I prompted Harry into explaining to Draco about the difference between rugby and football (my knowledge of the two sports was fairly limited back then), that it occurred to me that their lingering animosity was quite normal, and it was _my_ relationship with Draco that was the odd one. I still struggle to realise exactly why I allowed it – he had tried to doom us all while we were at school, and a decade later I had welcomed him into my home. I think that ultimately it boiled down to a little bit of foolishness on my part, surprise on that first afternoon, and something in his eyes that asked me to let bygones be bygones. 

That afternoon was the first time I had been alone in the flat without Draco in two months. We had left and visited London together several times, and I imagined he had explored the area a little bit on his own while I had been out at work each day. Draco had refused to use public transport on his own ever since that first trip on the Underground. 

I wondered if this was how Ginny and Harry had felt the first time they had entrusted me to take care of their baby son. They knew I was more than capable of taking care of little James, but still worried about him all the same. What if Draco had a question about Muggles that he needed me to answer? What if he didn’t understand something and Harry forgot to explain it to him? 

The flat felt ever so quiet without the intermittent flick of the light switch, the volume of the television roaring up and down and random exclamations of “Extraordinary” and “How on earth do they come up with these things”. I think he half suspected I was using magic to control a lot of things about the flat, when really, electricity prevailed. 

I spent a restless day trying to catch up on some reading, and ate dinner alone when Harry texted me to say they were going to the pub after the match. A few hours later, I conceded that it was clearly going to be a late one at the pub, and I gave up waiting and went to bed. 

Only a few hours later I woke up in to a hurried knock on my door. 

“Granger,” rasped an all too familiar voice. Then again, louder. It was one of those whispers that were too loud to be really considered a whisper, and it was fully intended to wake me up. 

Sitting up in bed, I barely had a chance to process that it was Draco knocking on my bedroom door in the middle of the night before the door creaked open, and light spilled in from the hallway. Draco was only a foot into my bedroom when the smell of beer hit me. 

“Potter is pissed,” Draco announced, and sat down unceremoniously on the corner of my bed. He wobbled a bit, before balancing. Harry wasn’t the only one. 

“Malfoy!” I hissed, though I did it more because it was an appropriate response to him staggering into my bedroom in the middle of the night than actually being annoyed at him. I was a little past being irritated at him by this stage – where once something he might have said or done had been annoying, but now I found it vaguely endearing. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Tell you what?” I was barely awake and struggling to keep up. 

“Muh…Muggle alca… _Beer_ ,” he slurred. “Booze, Granger. Granger.” 

I watched, bemused, as he slurred my name. I should not have found the drawn out “Graaaaaaaannnger” amusing, especially after the fourth time he said it. I absolutely should not have found it cute. The next morning I told myself furiously that I certainly shouldn’t have leaned in closer to him as he said it again, nor should I have let the duvet I had held up as a shield to my body slip from my grasp. 

Draco’s blurry gaze slid from my face, down to my chest. My tank top suddenly felt perilously thin. 

“Granger,” he said again, but this time his voice was hoarse, focused. Draco didn’t sound like he was slurring any longer, and I felt myself leaning closer to the edge of the bed where he sat. 

Suddenly I heard a retching sound from the direction of the bathroom. 

“Oh. Potter,” Draco said, apparently only just remembering he had left a drunken Harry in my living room. 

“Perhaps I should go and see if he’s okay,” I said, and slipped out of bed. 

When I returned to my room half an hour later after settling Harry on the sofa with a pillow and a blanket for him, and a glass of water and two paracetomol for the morning, I found Draco passed out, spread eagle on the corner of my bed. 

I sighed and levitated him into the guestroom. 

\-- 

“That was cruel, Harry,” I told my friend the next morning. Harry was hung-over, but not nearly as much as I suspected Draco would be when he emerged from his bedroom. “You were responsible for him, he’s never had Muggle beer before.” 

Harry had the decency to look guilty. I think he knew by this point, far before myself and Draco had come close to admitting it, how we felt about one another. I wondered what Draco had confessed to Harry while under the influence of all that beer. I tried not to think about how I had almost kissed him. 

“Well, he deserved it after being a bully for all those years,” Harry eventually replied. 

I didn’t bother to mention it, but my mind went to that day in sixth-year when Harry had cursed Draco with Sectumsempra. The scars still criss-crossed Draco’s chest. 

I had once caught him one evening between the bathroom and the guest bedroom that had become his, wearing only a towel. The pale scars evident on his chest were the furthest thing from my mind, and if my feelings towards him had only been a flare of attraction before then, they became a full blown crush afterwards. That chest, that I later came to know so well, sort of memorised me in a very unbecoming manner. When his hair was wet, it curled at the ends in an incredibly inviting, touchable way. 

“Granger.” There was a whimper from the doorway of the living room and Draco was slumped against the doorframe. He almost looked green. “How do Muggles fix _this_?” 

“Ugh,” Harry groaned in commiseration from the sofa. 

I had little sympathy for either of them. 

“Granger?” His voice was quiet. I’d had my share of hangovers over the years and I knew how he must be feeling. As if the sound of his own voice reverberating around his skull painfully until talking was a hazard of epic proportions. 

“There’s no equivalent to a Hangover Potion, Draco,” I told him gently. “Just lots of water, maybe some painkillers if you can keep them down.” 

His eyes widened, clearly appalled. He whispered, “How long will it last?” 

“It depends how much you drank.” 

Draco shot Harry a horrified glance. 

“All this... televisions and the internet and x-ray machines and hair-dye, and they haven’t invented a cure for a hangover?” 

I shook my head. 

“Muggles are completely stupid,” he said half-heartedly. Apart from the debacle with public transport, it would be the only time Draco berated Muggle life while he stayed with me. 

\- 

I lie. I know exactly when _it_ happened. There were no phalluses or alcohol or romantic, candle lit moments. We were standing in my kitchen doing the washing up. My kitchen wasn’t particularly large and we were caught in one of those moments, trying to get past one another, both darting to our own left, then our own right, and still standing in each other’s way. 

I laughed reflexively and Draco smiled back at me. 

I watched him for a moment and examined the difference I saw in him now compared to those last days at school, choosing not to reflect on the few times I saw him, in what would have been out seventh-year. 

Draco was taller now, much taller than my five-foot-two, and probably a few inches taller than Harry. I usually had to crane my neck slightly to examine his face if we were close, as we were in that moment. His hair, which seemed to be a constant source of irritation now that he didn’t have magic to tame it, tousled itself and frequently fell into his eyes, where in school it had been severely slicked back. 

I was still watching him, comfortably staring, when he threw the damp tea-towel onto the kitchen table and muttered, “Fuck it.” 

I didn’t even get a chance to ask, “What are you talking about?” before he took my face in his hands, studied me for a moment, and then he kissed me. Draco Malfoy kissed me in my kitchen. 

We had been dilly-dallying around it for months and then he was kissing me, and no discredit to the men I had kissed before then, but it was the perfect kiss. His mouth arched over mine, and his lips started to convince me that ninety percent of my nerve endings had reorganised themselves into my mouth. The other ten percent rushed to wherever his fingers skated over my face, my neck, and lower, making my shiver. 

After that first kiss, when we slowly drew apart, Draco was smiling in a way I never would have thought him capable of at school. 

“I didn’t think you liked me,” I whispered shyly. 

“Are you completely dim?” he asked quietly, and then smiled. “I’ve wanted you since day one. I got fed up of waiting. What’s taken you so long?” 

Hindsight is, of course, twenty-twenty, and now when I look back, I realise how every little thing we did was one step closer to ending up kissing in my kitchen. Especially when I now know for every time I had gotten flustered by his comments that I took in jest, he was half-serious. It certainly wasn’t by chance that he chose me as his back-up sponsor. 

I smiled at him and then reached up to kiss him again. Draco’s lips met mine, harder this time, more determined, and I whimpered into his mouth. 

“Granger,” he said against my lips, and it was practically a growl. 

My insides did the flip they had done before when he had said something lewd or suggestive, but this time it was so much more. Draco’s hand curled around my lower back. The heat in my belly flared hotter and lower and I was dangerously close to losing myself in him. 

Draco pushed his hips lightly into mine, just enough so that I could feel his erection through his trousers -- just enough so I was obliged to reach for him and tug him closer to me so that he was pressed right against me. When he backed me into the nearest wall, I groaned from the sheer pleasure of his weight pressing into me. 

He pulled back then and looked at me. Or my eyes, at least. He was so close that I could feel his breath puffing against my lips, his chest was still heaving against mine. I couldn’t see much beyond his grey eyes staring hungrily at me. 

“Granger?” 

I nodded and he pulled me from the kitchen in a matter of seconds. 

We didn’t let go of one another as we stumbled into the bedroom. Tearing off our clothing and keeping our bodies and mouths in constant contact felt like an impossible task; to stop kissing to pull my robes over my head was unbearable, as was the idea of not feeling the hot pressure of Draco’s skin against my own. For several moments we stood kissing in a tight embrace, hands _everywhere_ , with Draco’s button-down robes hanging open and my own robes bunches up above my chest. 

Draco fingers circled over my naked back and downwards. I shuddered against him when he flicked the waistband of my knickers, and it only served to make me rub my breasts against him. At some point my bra had ended up on the floor. 

My knees felt like they were about to buckle under the weight of my desire when Draco finally backed me onto the bed, crawling on top of me when I fell onto the mattress. 

“Do we a need a, uh, condom?” 

“ _I_ can still use magic, you idiot,” I whispered, and pulled his mouth down against mine. 

\-- 

The next morning I lay in bed with Draco curled naked behind me. I was feeling far too… relaxed to feel even the slightest bit embarrassed about the previous evening’s activities or our state of undress. I was feeling even more comfortable in the knowledge that more was yet to come, judging from the way Draco’s erection shifted slightly against my backside. 

Draco was half-asleep, mumbling about the scent of my shampoo, and it made me smile. Our childhood animosity had been the result of the traditions associated with magic, as was the war that tore us all apart. Without magic, or rather, the politics it had garnered, Draco and I had done a marvellous job of falling completely for one another. Draco dropped a kiss behind my earlobe. 

“Granger, I know this sounds a bit weird – can we… can I use a condom?”

The law I had encouraged the Ministry to pass had done more than land a snobby pureblood in my kitchen. In fact, it had done exactly as I had hoped – Draco had gone from knowing next to nothing about Muggles and despising their way of life when I had last seen him, to wholeheartedly embracing it now. 

And there is certainly something to be said for a Ministry law that lands attractive, naked blonds in my bed. Of course, now I have this particular attractive, frequently naked blond man in my bed and in my life, there is no one else I would rather have.


End file.
